Category: Miz Q
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30 Nov: Miz Q’s Last Small One
Small Pieces of Silver We are like those silver things, misty silver lights, olive tree leaves, that silver shiver of uncertainty, that light willowy fog at night, like an army of light refusing to fade, like crystal chandeliers, and silver spoons.
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29 Nov: A Fox-Gazelle
A White Fox in Camouflage The wind is in the key of coldness. It barks as trees argue with the wind, starved by its conversation. There, perched on branches, winter birds and other wings, where birds know there is warmth below the snow. The trees suck at dark layers, the sun pulled up by its…
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27 Nov: Q and PA Day 27
A Poem Based on Henri Rousseau’s “Myself. Portrait Landscape” (from L’ile Saint Louis) This woman’s name is Clémence.She is Henri Rousseau’s lover. You must, she tells, Rousseau,be frontal, be primitive. Be the lion in your jungle. Dress yourself inbest Sunday’s black, and permit your feet to rise on pavements.Pause semaphores on their lines, and strike…
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26 Nov: PA & Q Day 26
A Particular Tree (Major Oak, Nottinghamshire) Beyond the iron gatesof the low stone wall,where the view widenson the slow rising hills is a model of serious trees. There amongst the birds, fields and things that arepermanent and unbroken,we look up at that tree as true and honest wisdom. Its limbs stretch out inthe morning sun…
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25 Nov: Q and PA Day 25
In All seriousness A boy asks the local halal butcher“Are you Santa, sir?” And the butcher rolls two fingerson his bristley beard, as if piecingmyth and faith into a jigsaw puzzle. He spins the rotisserie, fat rendersin long drips from the doner meat,and he slices precisely thin sheets. “No, I am not Santa, but I…
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24 Nov: Q’s and PA Day 24
For a Bear Called Cedric You’d poke it with a stickto see if it’s really dead,and if it grabbed the stick you’d not be surprised. He was made from a sock,stuffed with squishy fluff,and had a button in his ear, and you’d not be surprised if he was smiling at the moon, and sat on…
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23 Nov: Prose for Miz Quickly
A Poem Not Beginning with a Line by Elizabeth Barrett Browning I’m just a slug on the wet inner-face of the discourse, writes Jack Underwood. I don’t know Jack Underwood, but I read what he wrote, and assume lots of people also read him, and I believed every word he wrote about dead rabbits, and…
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22 Nov: Miz Quickly’s Day 22
Warmth A son hugs his mother,and her eyes well up. Too long. It’s beentoo long since they shared warmth in their arms,love bound by the luxury of warmth, like softened butter,that sort of warmth, or flannel pyjamasand cashmere socks, or warm soft boiled eggs,and toast with that softened butter. When did warmth becomea luxury. These…
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21 Nov: dVerse Haibun Monday
Autumn undresses the trees. Leaves gone mouldy. And rotting. Everything. Damp. And smells of dog. Autumn has clouds in her eyes. Autumn has rain in her head. She removes her floral halo, and lets time have its way with her. Singing woodwind treesWiley words from a spiderPrick survival skills Written for dVerse Poet, Haibun Monday “Autumn’s Voice”…
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21 Nov: Q & NovPAD Day 21
PA: use these words: button, gather, hold, not, sweep, toxic I.A Clean Break She will march like the sunback into her own name,gather how many thingsher suitcase will hold. It happens.Mistakes.It happens.Like blunt knives and bent forks.She’s leaving him,but not before she makes the bedand sweeps the floor. It’s her last toxic responseto his fleeting hot…
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